Reflection

I feel guilty. So wretchedly, inconsolably, insufferably guilty. I stand here reticently staring at the creature staring at me, from behind the clouded plate glass of this gleaming mirror. Normally I despise mirrors, can’t stand them, but tonight my eyes remain fixed to this dark silhouette. This distorted and yet near perfect imitation of myself. Its short, neatly combed, light brown hair; deeply set, imposing, iridescent dark brown eyes; and impassive porcelain pale face wrought with imperfection. This creature’s stare is intense, focused, the kind of gaze that might pierce through the many layers of your carefully chosen façade, stripping you bare, and penetrate the very depths of your mortal soul.

I run my heavy hands violently through my hair. It doesn’t move with me. This should surprise me, frighten me even. But it doesn’t. The creature remains still, stagnant, static, un-moving. I realize suddenly that I’m doing the same, not moving. The world spins around us on clean orbit, everyone, even you, maintains momentum, is always transitory. The creature and I are left behind. Just a flicker of a memory imposed upon the present. We stand here like some archaic remnant of centuries past. Perfectly preserved, a set of identical collectors dolls still safe inside their clear plastic wrapping.

Suddenly soothing, bright scarlet blood begins to drip fluently down its impassive face. Seeping from every visible orifice: its eyes, its nose, and its ears. Compliantly following the curves of its hardened cheek bone; un-impeded by the few age-lines in its pale complexion. I wipe at my own cheek, expecting to find blood collated on my finger tips. There is none. This puts me on edge a little; a knife’s edge. I wipe again but find nothing. I scrape anxiously at my face but still find no trace of blood. The comforting synthetic glare of fluorescent lighting flickers forebodingly, or perhaps it’s my imagination. I remain entranced and hypnotized by this livid figure. Half expecting it to lunge through the plate glass, like the translucent ghoul of a horror movie, and violently entrap me with its ghostly limbs.

The creature holds a knife now. A blade held looming, in avid anticipation, over its left shoulder on a near perfect forty-five degree angle. It seems alive with refracted light, thirsting to embrace clean flesh. Ready for its next victim. Ready for me. I blink once. My eyes reopen to the comforting sting of steel against skin. I feel a little foolish as I suddenly realize that it’s my three and a half inch flick knife clasped tightly within this creature’s cold grip. Not it, but I, am holding the knife. The blood dripping down its face has disappeared, as though it were only ever my imagination teasing the brick walls of reality. Or perhaps an early indicator of psychosis.

I close the knife, clip it the back of my belt, compose myself for the measure of a deep breath and then turn to leave. A voice. From inside the mirror. I stop still. Suspended between the door and the glass: this moment and the next. My shoulder turned, my heel raised. Frozen in motion. The voice is soft, little more than a hissed whisper, and yet still audible enough to make every nerve ending in my cold body tremble in chorus. Its tone is disarming, disturbing, and seductive, like a long lost lover trying to entice you back into the soft silky folds of their bed. My heart quickens, becomes erratic, pushes hard against bone and flesh.